


His Inspiration

by Elleberquist6



Series: Undertale Fics [2]
Category: Rocky Horror Picture Show, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, First Meetings, Flirting, Gender Roles, Interviews, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleberquist6/pseuds/Elleberquist6
Summary: Mettaton is a confident, seductive entertainer. He has a secret though... the source of this persona is a man. What will happen when he meets this man, and all of his usual banter fails him?





	His Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stardust_Ti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stardust_Ti/gifts).



> Happy birthday, AmazingDandroid!

The crowd roared as Mettaton stepped onto the stage – his gaze swept across the audience and he offered them a dazzling smile, giving the impression that he appreciated each and every one of them. The applause grew deafening. As he crossed the stage to shake hands with the host, even this professional man who spoke with stars all the time seemed a bit impressed with Mettaton’s stage presence.

The host of the Late Show, Smith, regained his composure though. He stood to shake Mettaton’s hand and then waved in invitation to the sofa beside his desk. “Have a seat, please. And thanks for coming on the show.”

“Thanks for having me,” Mettaton said with a winning smile, as he sat and crossed his legs.

Smith gave a chagrined smile as he leaned back in his chair and gestured to his desk. “I understand that you are usually sitting where I am during this scenario, Mr. Mettaton. How does being on the sofa feel?”

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Mettaton said as he bounced experimentally, testing the springs. “It’s a very nice sofa. Comfy. Would be good for lounging or sleeping. Or other things.” He grinned once more at the crowd. “And the view is pretty nice.”

The crowd roared once more, and Smith had to wait for his audience to settle down before he could say anything else. Jokingly, he said with a laugh, “Careful, this is my show… for now. I wouldn’t want you steal it from me by being too charismatic. The next thing I know, you will be walking out of this studio and my audience will follow you.”

“I’m sorry, Smith. I’m like a modern-day Pied Piper of Hamelin, and if your audience follows me when I go… well, there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s just a risk you accepted when you invited me on the show.”

Smith glanced down at the papers on his desk, seeming to get into business mode. “Right then, speaking of the show, let’s get onto the topic of what we’re here to do. I understand that you were interested in telling us a bit about yourself.”

Mettaton shifted on the sofa, as if to get more comfortable. “Yes indeed, I have a few stories I could share, if you wanted to hear them.”

“That would be wonderful.” Smith gesticulated as he spoke. “I believe that you recently underwent a dramatic transformation in your appearance. Could you tell us more about that?”

“I’d be happy to!” Mettaton said, as he glanced down at himself. “I suppose 'dramatic' is a good way to describe it. In my previous incarnation, I had a lot less curves for one thing.”

“Curves is an interesting way to put it,” he said with a smile, and then seemed to hesitate. “May I be blunt with you, Mr. Mettaton?”

“Oh yes, please do.”

“Your hair, your figure, the colors and shoes you wear… None of it is consistent with traditional masculinity. I don’t like traditional gender roles and I wouldn’t even mention it, but I find it especially interesting in your case. You completely customized your appearance, so all of these features were something you chose for yourself. May I ask you about what gender means to you?”

“Of course.” Mettaton looked pensive for a moment, and he touched his heart-shaped core. “It’s something that I have always known about myself, on the inside. I knew in my heart who I was, back before I had any external features to represent my sex. I’m a man. I know that in my heart. I feel like since that is so obvious to me, it doesn’t matter what others see me as. I like the color pink and I want to wear it – that doesn’t make me any less of a man.”

“No, of course not. And I wish more men felt that way.” Absentmindedly, Smith touched the pink pocket square tucked into the pocket of his suit and smiled. “I’m glad there is someone out there like you, who young people can hear speak and look up to. I’m sure it means a lot to the kids watching the show, who are still figuring out who they are.”

Mettaton looked directly into the camera and blinked in surprise. “I never thought about it like that. I suppose I still identify more with those young people, looking up to an idol and trying to learn from him and the way he lives his life.”

Smith perked up with interest. “Oh? You have someone you idolize? I never considered that about you, since you’re such a confident person. Would you tell us about him, please?”

“Oh, I couldn’t…” He said through his hands, as he covered his face and looked away. “What if he sees this?”

"I’m sure he’d be flattered,” Smith cajoled. “You’re such a successful person. You have fans who love you. Anyone would thrilled to hear that someone like you looks up to them.”

Mettaton shook his head, still hiding behind his hands. If his complexion could change, he would likely be blushing.

“I’m sure our audience is curious,” Smith said, his eyes flicking to the crowd. In response, the audience screamed and clapped enthusiastically. Smith gestured to them. “Come on, Mr. Mettaton. You can’t disappoint these people.”

“I suppose not,” he said with a sigh. “Okay, um… I’m not sure how to tell you about him. I suppose I should just start at the beginning, and tell you about the first time I saw him.”

"Yes, please,” Smith said, nodding encouragingly.

“I was young, a child, and still coming to terms with all of the things we were talking about earlier. Being a boy – knowing who I was on the inside, but not having an outside to reflect that. And liking pink and traditionally girly things in a world that doesn’t understand or accept boys who like those things. I didn’t know at that time that it was okay to be me. I didn’t know who I was supposed to grow up to be, because it didn’t seem like there was anyone else like me. I felt lost.”

As Mettaton paused, seeming lost in remembrance of this dark time in his life, Smith asked softly, “And then you saw him? Your idol?”

Mettaton smiled. “Yes. In a documentary-style movie. The most wonderful movie I have ever seen. He embodied everything that I wanted to be. He oozed masculine energy, yet strutted around in high heels. He wore makeup and people were startled when they realized he was a man, but he never let it phase him. He always lived his life the way he wanted to lead it, and never let the opinions of others stop him.”

“And who was this man?” Smith coaxed.

“Frank N. Furter,” Mettaton confessed. “Of the true documentary, Rocky Horror Picture show. Are you familiar with it?”

“I am.” Smith nodded. “I can see why he would have meant something to you growing up.”

“More than that,” Mettaton said, as he squirmed in his seat. “He’s continued to mean something to me into my adulthood. Quite a lot. As you said, I was in a position to choose my body’s appearance. It was something I thought a lot about, and nothing traditional appealed to me. There was only one form that I could imagine emulating: Frank. I designed myself after him.”

“Oh my, that is a revelation.” He glanced at his watch. “I wish we had more time to discuss this, but unfortunately we have to go to commercial.” As the audience called out in disappointment, Smith laughed. “Have patience! After the break, our guest has graciously offered to perform a song for us. Thank you, Mr. Mettaton!”

"The pleasure is all mine,” Mettaton said with a grin.  
           

 

With a thoughtful smile of his own, Frank turned off his tv. As silence filled the room, he contemplated the captivating creature who had just filled the screen. He said to himself, “What an interesting person..."

 

☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆

 

It was late, but Metta wasn’t tired yet. He was settled on his sofa as he sipped on a glass of red wine. He had brought his diary into the living room to encourage himself to write in it tonight, so he picked it up before motivation abandoned him completely for the night. Opening it, he saw the last time he had written in it two weeks ago. The entry began “Dearer Diary” and described the filming of the Late Show with Smith.

Nothing of interest had happened since then, so Metta had neglected his diary, but he didn’t want to get out of the habit completely. He picked up a pen, scribbled

“Dearest Diary” on the page, and tried to decide what he could commit to the page. As he thought, he tapped his pen on the paper. When a knock at the door startled him, his pen slipped and left a streak across the page. He quickly shut his diary and got up to answer the door.

The knock sounded again just as he was reaching the door. He unlocked his door and opened his mouth as he pulled it open, ready to greet his unexpected guest. His voice died in his throat as he saw who it was.

“Hello, Mettaton,” Frank said with a smile, obviously noticing the instantaneous reaction he had on Metta. “May I come in?”

Not thinking too much about it, Metta stepped aside so that Frank could enter. As he passed him, he couldn’t help noticing the garters that ran up Frank’s legs, visible under the hem of his coat. Frank didn’t move to take off his coat, which was a good thing – if he was as scarcely dressed as Metta suspected, he probably would have spontaneously combusted at the sight.

Metta turned quickly to shut his door, grateful for a second to compose his face. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was also underdressed in a simple cotton robe. He felt flustered and frantic, which frustrated him. Metta was the type of person who made other feel like that. No one had ever turned the tables like this on him before! Determined to not let his idol see him sweat, Metta turned around with a grin. “What are you doing here, in my humble abode?”

Frank returned his grin. “I think we both know what I’m doing here, dearie.”

Metta twitched at the nickname. He fought to keep a confident mask on his face. “Oh, do we, darling?”

“Yes. Obviously, I saw the interview you did.”

Metta sucked in a sharp breath, his confidence shattering as he imagined what this person he adored thought of him now. “Oh no… I wish you hadn’t seen that. I never should have said all that. That wasn’t how I wanted you to hear about me, and I can’t imagine what you think of me now.”

Frank’s soft smile never faltered. “You act as though you said something awful in that interview. Nonsense! I thought it was sweet. That’s why I found out where you lived and came to visit you.”

“But I…” Metta covered his face, unconvinced. “I’m so creepy. I made myself look like you. That is so…” He sighed and dropped his hands. “As an entertainer, I always like to talk about my adoring fans and how much I love them. But as a fanboy, I’m the worst. Not only did I copy your look, but your mannerisms as well. The lilt in the way you speak, your chuckle, your hand gestures. You are a role I play whenever I want to seem seductive and clever.”

Frank stepped closer to him. “I’m sorry, did I upset you by coming here? I can leave.”

Feeling stripped bare, Metta was unsure what to say. It felt like he usually found his lines in a script, but that had been taken away from him – perhaps because he usually liked to be “Frank” in this play, but that role had been given to someone else this time. Metta wasn’t sure who he was right now. All he knew was that he didn’t want Frank to go yet, so he shook his head and led Frank to his sofa where they sat down. Metta took a calming breath as Frank politely gave him a moment to compose himself, and said, “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m making an awful impression.”

“You’re not,” Frank insisted. “I’m the one who surprised you at your home in the middle of the night, and didn’t even introduce myself before strolling in.” They both laughed at that, and it eased a bit of the tension. “I’m sorry. My sense of drama and a desire to make a shocking entrance aren’t always the best thing in fragile social situations. You’ll have to forgive me.”

“I do,” Metta assured him. “Though I’m not sure if I deserve the same. I know what I’ve done is really creepy, and you must feel so violated right now.”

“If you think that, then you must not know me at all. And here I thought you were a fan of me!” Frank laughed again as his comment startled Metta. He leaned in and put a hand on Metta’s knee. “I think you are sweet. You’ve flattered me, dearie. I mean it. I don’t feel violated at all.”

The hand on his knee felt warm. Metta let out a shuddering breath, and looked away as he swallowed heavily. “You’re too kind, darling. I don’t think anyone else would say something like that, upon meeting someone who has been impersonating him for years.”

“You? An impersonator? That’s not what I see at all.” As Metta turned to face him, Frank’s smile widened. “You are far too unkind to yourself. That’s not the man I saw when watching your interview. You talked about always knowing who you were and an unwillingness to conform to this other person who society wanted you to be. What makes you think that you have turned yourself into an impression of me? No! Your sense of self is too strong to have allowed that to happen. You are your own man, Mettaton. And I think that man is pretty amazing.”

Impulsively, Metta lunged at Frank and wrapped his arms around him before he could question what he was doing. He whispered, “Thank you.”  
           


End file.
